Pop Pop and Stainless Steel
by Harpokrates
Summary: Locked in a lab by an inexplicable and completely co-incidental chain of events, Perceptor and Sunstreaker have to put up with each other's company for twelve hours.


Perceptor frowned and ducked down, squinting at the buzzing light flickering through the window.

"Wheeljack," he tapped his radio, "are you in my lab?"

The mildly irritated 'again' went unspoken. Perceptor could count, on one hand, the lab equipment he had broken since waking up on earth. Calculating Wheeljack's mortality rate, on the other hand, required a dedicated supercomputer routed through Teletraan-One and reworking the fundamental theorem of calculus. It was apparently a very impressive thing amongst humans, because it had netted him some 'Noble' prize, which was a big deal, or so Chip kept telling him.

Optimus Prime had, at least, enjoyed the ceremony. He'd spent most of the evening deep in conversation with a man named Desmond Tutu, and emerged with a new understanding of the ways humans could be terrible to each other.

"I'm in the mess hall," Wheeljack snapped him out of thought, "I finally got the new photonic system installed—"

There was a crash, and a screech loud enough to hear over Wheeljack's speaker.

"Ah," Wheeljack coughed static. Perceptor could practically see his fins flush in embarrassment, "well, maybe not. You might want to go with rations today."

"Noted. Do you want me to look at your design?"

"Nah, I'm pretty sure I know what went wrong. Poorly distributed pressure and all that. I'll have it fixed in a jiffy."

That was usually code for 'trinker for an hour before getting distracted and relegating it to the ever growing pile of broken inventions living in the bottom of Wheeljack's storage closet'. Perceptor occasionally worried that it would develop sentience one of these days.

"Hm."

"I'm glad you're so supportive," Wheeljack said without a hint of irony in his tone, "anyways, why did you call?"

"I must have left the light on in my lab, nothing to worry about."

"Really? That's unlike you. Have you been recharging enough?"

Perceptor frowned. "That's hardly something _you_ should be telling me about."

"Hey! I got my stimulant code working ages ago. I haven't needed to sleep in like," Wheeljack paused, "what month is it?"

Perceptor let out a creaking groan. "Wheeljack…"

"Bumblebee says it's February. Ha, I've probably broken some kind of record."

"Maybe you should tell Ratchet and he can give you a tranquilizer."

"I'm no quitter." Wheeljack laughed.

"Hm, I'll see you later?"

"Sure. Hey, stop running up the Ark's power bills, will ya?"

"Bye, Wheeljack." He closed the connection.

Perceptor continued towards his lab. He considered himself fortuitous that the Ark's original engineers had seen the wisdom of multiple laboratory rooms, instead of a single large room with removable partitions. That way, he had at least a little protection when Wheeljack's experiments exploded in his face. Additionally, it gave them a place to store samples from Ratchet. After awakening on earth, Perceptor had volunteered to take over the medical lab, given that he was the only mech on the Ark with any background in analytical chemistry. It was better for everyone that potential technohazards and chemical spills were far away from potential explosives.

Perceptor typed his passcode into the lock. It accepted the code, and blurt out a sharp bit of static as it informed him that the door was already unlocked. He frowned. Unlocked, with the lights still on. Perhaps Wheeljack was right, and exhaustion was making him absent minded.

He opened the door, and stepped face first into someone's chest.

"Haha, oh shit."

Ah, Sideswipe.

Perceptor stumbled backwards. Sideswipe—there was a hulking form behind him, silhouetted by the light—and Sunstreaker were standing next to the chemical cupboard and the pile of circuit boards he kept meaning to sort. Between them, they carried an electric burner, two boxes of glassware, and four meters of plastic tubing wrapped around Sideswipe's neck.

"What are you—"

"Every mech for himself!" Sideswipe shouted, and threw his box at Sunstreaker. Sunstreaker fell back onto the lab bench—thankfully missing the circuit boards—and Sideswipe bolted for the door.

"Now, you—" Perceptor began, but Sideswipe cut him off—again—this time by bodily tossing him into the chemical cupboard. The metal dented under him, and he heard Sunstreaker curse.

"Sideswipe," Sunstreaker growled. Perceptor scrambled for his bearings and managed to wrench his eyes open. While he had missed the circuit boards, Sunstreaker managed to slam directly into the rack of energon samples Ratchet sent down to the lab that morning. His back was coated with energon and bits of fragmented glass.

"Uh, sorry?" Sideswipe shrugged sheepishly. The lab alarm started shrieking. Perceptor clapped his hands over his audials. He could see Sideswipe and Sunstreaker doing the same. Sideswipe jumped outside the lab just before the door slammed shut. Sunstreaker punched the door a few times, but it wouldn't budge. Perceptor finally removed himself from the cabinet and slapped the red button on the wall.

The alarm died, mid-siren. Blissful silence rang through the room. The vents snapped closed, and the gentle hum of the air system chugging to life broke the quiet. Negative air pressure to keep contaminants in the room. Clever.

"Damnit," Sunstreaker hissed, grinding his fist into the door. He stared through the window, presumably at Sideswipe.

Perceptor backed away, slowly. Even he knew Sunstreaker had a short temper, and a tendency to relieve that temper on whatever unfortunate bystanders happened to be in arm's reach. His back hit the bench. Sunstreaker turned to glare down at him. His eyes were nearly white, and his handsome face was twisted in an ugly sneer.

"Perceptor?" The comm unit on the wall crackled to life, "-erceptor?"

Perceptor scrambled over to it, distinctly aware that it put him within punching distance of Sunstreaker. He tapped it. "Perceptor here."

"This is Wheeljack. We heard the alarm; what's going on?"

Perceptor glanced at the energon samples dripping down Sunstreaker's back. "Technohazard. Sunstreaker fell on a rack of energon samples. We're locked in."

"Sunstreaker?" That was Ratchet. "Is that why Sideswipe is out here? No, Sideswipe, get away from the speaker!"

"They broke in," Perceptor took a step away when Sunstreaker glared at him.

"Hey, bro," Sideswipe said, "you okay? Ouch, Ratchet!"

The sound of metal crashing poured through the speaker for a moment. Perceptor looked at his fingers. Sunstreaker fumed through the window.

"You said there was a technohazard?" Ratchet finally grumbled.

"Ah, yes. The energon samples you sent me."

"That's routine testing. There isn't anything communicable."

"It's an automatic response," Perceptor explained, standing on the edges of his feet. He had to hold onto the window frame for balance. Sunstreaker glared down at him, and Perceptor cringed, but the fist never came. Instead, Sunstreaker jostled him for a view out of the window. "It'd occur regardless of the contents."

Wheeljack's face came into view, and his fins flashed a sullen shade of blue. "The lockdown lasts for twelve hours! Minimum!"

"Can you call Red Alert? He might have the clearance to override the quarantine."

"Already done," Ratchet said, "I contacted Optimus Prime and Prowl, as well."

"Prowl?" Sideswipe said, hesitantly.

"Yes, Prowl."

"Haha, oh man," Sideswipe's voice petered off into a whine. He shoved Wheeljack aside, pressing his face against the glass. "Bro, Sunny, keep quiet, yeah? I'm not gonna throw you under the bus or anything. Ixnay on the ighhay radegay. "

"Sideswipe," Sunstreaker's finger left dents in the comm button, "I am gonna beat the shit out of you."

Sideswipe ducked out of view. "Yeah, no hard feelings to you, too. Ass."

"Red Alert's here," Ratchet shoved Sideswipe away from the door.

"Quarantine," Red Alert's face appeared in the window, "is designed to prevent an outbreak. If _anything_ , it should be longer. Twelve hours isn't long enough to mount a total clean-up crew."

"That's great," Ratchet ground his thumb into the bridge of his nose, "how do we get them out of it?"

Red Alert crossed his arms. "You can't. I designed the system in case of an emergency. Not even I can get in if the system is closed."

"So we're stuck?" Sunstreaker spoke up. Sideswipe looked distraught.

"Could Optimus override the system?"

"Wheeljack, _no_ level of security clearance can override a quarantine."

"Can we hack it?"

Red Alert sighed. "Maybe. In ten years, if Soundwave himself decided to lend a hand. Your best bet is just to let the twelve hours pass."

"How about the vents? Blaster's 'bots could fit up there."

"And do what? Besides, the vents close during quarantine."

"Do you have energon?" Ratchet leaned back into view of the window.

"Er, no," Perceptor shrugged and looked around the lab, "oh, there might be a cube or two in the desk."

"That'll have to do."

"Wait," Sideswipe shoved himself up, "can't we just like, break down the door? Or cut a hole through it or something?"

Red Alert shot him a nasty glare. "Do you want the entire Ark to go into lockdown? There's a reason there are primary precautions on the labs."

Sunstreaker blew air sharply through his nose. "So we're stuck?" He repeated.

"Until," Ratchet checked his chronometer, "nineteen-thirty seven."

"Heugh," Sunstreaker let out a noise that sounded like a sigh died on impact upon dropping from his mouth.

"Don't worry, Sunny, I'm here for ya."

"Anh," Ratchet shoved Sideswipe out of view, "you have an appointment with Prowl."

"Wha? But I didn't get in any fights or race or nothing."

"I don't know where you come from," Ratchet rubbed his forehead, "but _theft_ definitely counts as breaking parole."

"Ah, we were only borrowing, honest. Back me up here, Sunny?"

Sunstreaker looked at him, squinting through the glass. Sideswipe stuck out his lower lip.

"It was all his idea and I had nothing to do with it."

Red Alert gave him a flat look. "Right. Perceptor?"

Perceptor considered. It would, of course, be tactically advantageous to get on Sunstreaker's good side, especially considering he liked his face where it was, and not, for instance, fused with Sunstreaker's fist. Also, well. He would have been lying if he denied being at least slightly irritated at Sideswipe.

"I wouldn't know," Perceptor shrugged, "I really didn't see what happened. It was too fast for me to catch. Sorry."

Sunstreaker covered his smirk with his hand.

Sideswipe's face contorted in dismay. "Traitor."

Ratchet rolled his eyes. "Look, the fact remains that you two are stuck in there for the rest of the day."

"We—" Perceptor's eyes flitted over to Sunstreaker, who had returned to glowering, "we'll be alright. It's only eleven hours and forty three minutes."

"Hm. Good luck." Ratchet tapped the glass. "I've got _someone_ ," he tugged Sideswipe into view by his arm, "to deliver to Prowl."

Sunstreaker waved vaguely. Red Alert followed Ratchet, grumbling about standard procedures and community service requirements.

"Don't worry, Perceptor," Wheeljack gave him a thumbs up, "I'm here for you—"

"Wheeljack!"

For someone without a mouth, Wheeljack was awfully expressive. Preceptor wasn't even sure his eye could get that large..

"Ah, I might need to rescind that offer," he glanced down the hall, "I, ah, have an energon dispenser to fix. Bye."

He bolted.

That left Perceptor standing in a room—locked in a room—with Sunstreaker.

"Didn't know he could make that expression," Sunstreaker stared out of the window, his pale eyes flickering back and forth.

Perceptor slipped towards the back of the lab and activated the cleaning bots. The little drones whirred out of the wall and swept up the shattered glass vials and energon dripping down the counter.

Speaking of energon…

"Ah," Perceptor retrieved an old rag from his subspace, "may I?"

Sunstreaker tore his gaze away from the window. "What?" He asked flatly.

"Well, energon acquires a mildly corrosive property on contact with oxygen, so I was wondering if you needed assistance to—"

"No," Sunstreaker sneered and snatched the rag from Perceptor's hand.

Perceptor shrugged off his offense—lucky not to get punched was his current modus operandi—and returned to the bench top. The mess was clean now, thanks in no small part to the little cleaning drones, but he still had to figure out who needed to get samples redrawn. He was squinting at the datapad when Sunstreaker shoved him aside, leaning over the reflective metal to properly scrub off his back.

"Excuse me," Perceptor glowered up at him. Sunstreaker returned the expression, his eyes somehow flashing a lighter shade. Perceptor's pump thrummed silent for a few beats. No. He shook off the panic; this was _his lab_ , and he wasn't about to let some preening bully harass him out of his tasks.

"Excuse me," he said again, and hoped the quaver in his voice wasn't as obvious as it sounded, "I am _trying_ to work."

Sunstreaker looked down at him, the faintest hint of mild surprise coloring his expression, before snorting and returning to his self-maintenance. Perceptor gritted his teeth. Before he could lecture Sunstreaker—with small words, so he would _understand_ —Sunstreaker shifted left, just slightly, but enough that Perceptor could finish sifting through the datapad for barcodes.

He pursed his lips. Ratchet had obviously left the hospital shy mechs for last. It would be a pain dragging them in for energon draws again.

"So," Sunstreaker tilted his head at the datapad, "whose energon is splattered all over my back?"

Perceptor flattened his hand over the screen. "None of your business."

Sunstreaker raised a brow. "I _really_ think it is."

"Not really, _actually_ ," Perceptor snapped, "it's a matter of patient confidentiality."

Sunstreaker snorted. Perceptor caught him muttering 'better not be a minibot' under his breath. He gave up leaning and sat on the bench top, arching his back to scrub the energon out of a crevasse. Perceptor rolled his eyes.

This was going to be a long twelve hours.

* * *

Perceptor's tanks gave a low murmur of discomfort two hours in. He patted his stomach. This was, he supposed, entirely his own fault for having such a haphazard and infrequent refueling schedule. He checked his subspace again. A collection of datapads, various and sundry machinery bits, and a series of increasingly fine milled lenses sifted through his hands. Still no energon. Perceptor sighed, and pressed his forehead into the lab bench. He used the tip of his index finger to push a circuit board into the pile he had mentally flagged as 'give to Wheeljack'.

They had long since accepted that future explosions didn't need top tier components.

Not only did it save exponentially on Engineering's budget, it had also netted them invaluable friends in both recycling co-ops, and in wholesale electronics warehouses.

His empty tank growled.

Sunstreaker glanced up at the noise, the continued tossing a basketball at the wall.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Perceptor rubbed his temples with his fingers and pushed himself out of his seat. Perhaps there was a cube stuffed in the corner of his desk. He sat down in the (much comfier) chair and began rifling through his desk drawers. He extracted an intact solar panel from the morass and set it aside. Waste not, want not, and all that. There was something glowing faintly under a pile of datapads. Perceptor shoved his arm into the drawer up to his shoulder and groped vaguely for the source of the light. His fingers closed around a plastic packet, and he dragged it back to the surface.

Victorious, he wiggled back into the cushioning on his chair and pushed the door shut, cramming all the junk he unearthed back into the depths. Then, he opened his hand.

His prize was a battered packet of energon sticks, which, he flipped it open, had four actual energon sticks, a stylus, and three cygarettes—courtesy of Wheeljack. Perceptor extracted one energon stick and devoured it in a matter of seconds. Then, he closed the box and placed it neatly on the table, and folded his hands across his lap, drumming his fingers lightly.

He still felt awful. Candy did nothing for the appetite.

Something was amiss. Perceptor looked across the room at Sunstreaker, who had paused, and was staring back at him.

"Would you like one?" Perceptor held the box up.

Sunstreaker snorted and turned away.

Thunk.

Thunk.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want one?"

"No."

"I have extra."

"Frag off."

Nine hours to go.

* * *

In theory, free time to spend in his lab, with no obligations other than to fill up time, was the iron filings on the high grade. _Obligatory_ free time, Perceptor was beginning to realize, was quite postage worst punishment ever devised. If he had believed in a god, four hours into quarantine would be the time to start praying for forgiveness.

Perceptor powered down his datapad once he realized he'd been reading the same sentence about human mutations in Factor V, for the past ten minutes, and 'Leiden' didn't look like a word anymore. He had already read all of the recently published articles in the EBSCO databases, and was stuck rereading some of the journals Chip had mentioned in their myriad discussions. It was, in a word, boring.

At least he was faring better than Sunstreaker.

Cars, especially sports cars, needed to move. It was their primary function, as much as the need to discover was Perceptor's. It fueled their impulses, their hobbies. It was why Sideswipe was required to serve seventy hours of police detail for drag racing with a band of humans.

Sunstreaker, for all that he was a short-tempered, short-sighted, blood thirsty mechanism, was handling confinement rather well.

"Fuck!" He roared, driving his fist into the wall. He vented short bursts of hot air for a few slow seconds before transforming from root mode to alt mode and back.

Human curses, Perceptor found, were surprisingly popular onboard the Ark. Well, perhaps it wasn't that surprising. There was a certain visceral pleasure in the harsh syllables, not to mention the outright disgusting implications of those distinctly _organic_ words. Everyone loved a taboo, and it was worth the mental imagery to make one squirm at the implication of human intercourse.

This was what Perceptor thought. What he _did_ , on the other hand, was try and make himself fuse into the floor. When his experiments into the realities of solid mass proved fruitless, he extracted himself from his cushions and sorted through his subspace again.

He organized the machinery pieces sixteen different ways before giving up and tipping them back in his subspace. The datapads he stacked on his desk, alongside their fellows. His desk creaked under the weight.

Perceptor fiddled with his extra lenses—kept out of harm's way in a synthetic fabric bag. They were free of any imperfection, of course. He checked them carefully every morning, as even a micron deep scratch could fatally flaw his findings. He toyed with the idea of doing another control test—one could never be too thorough—but dismissed the thought. Digging around in his circuitry in front of an audience was something in which he had negative interest. He returned the lenses to his subspace.

That only left the packet of energon sticks. He ate another, and extracted the stylus. Who knew where Wheeljack had acquired it? Wheeljack probably didn't even know.

"Give me one."

Perceptor flinched and spun around in his chair. For such a big mech, Sunstreaker was light on his feet. That was probably one of the reasons he was so deadly. His hand was flat in front of Perceptor's nose, palm up. He looked bored. Bored and irritated.

Perceptor quickly gave him an energon stick.

"Not that," Sunstreaker's lip curled and he snatched the packet out of Perceptor's hands. He returned the energon stick and instead grabbed a cygarette.

"Don't smoke in my lab."

Sunstreaker snorted.

"I'm serious," Perceptor pushed himself to his feet, "I have sensitive equipment in here. Combustion—"

"I'm not going to light it." Sunstreaker placed the end of the cyg in his mouth and ground it between his teeth.

Perceptor paused. "Why?"

Sunstreaker rolled his eyes, and returned to his pacing. Perceptor supposed that was as much an answer as any.

* * *

Perceptor felt the prickle of eyes staring at him, and resolved not to turn around. The center of his back itched; he shook it off.

He reached into the back of the chemical cupboard to grab an innocuous bottle. He had to maneuver a bit to get it around the dented door and the countless other shattered bottles of chemicals—all inert, thank goodness—but managed to successfully extract it.

"Excellent," he muttered to himself, and turned the bottle around to examine the manufacturer's label. After Sideswipe had tossed him into his chemical storage, several of the containers had shattered. And he was taking the time—mostly out of mind numbing boredom—to take stock of what supplies remained, and what supplied he would need to slip into the budget before Wheeljack and Skyfire sequestered it away for scientific conventions.

Perceptor smoothed out the label. He felt the tiny fracture in the plastic a second before it fragmented in his hands. His gloves hissed as whatever corrosive liquid—hydrofluoric acid, now that he caught a glimpse of the label—began eating through the flexible metal.

"Ah!" he held the caustic mess away from his body, and darted for the nearest sink. Dissolved metal dripped into the sink, and before he could decide how to turn on the faucet without melting it, Sunstreaker upended a container of sodium hydroxide over his hands.

Perceptor quickly shucked his gloves and flipped the water on. He flipped his hands over, squinting for any damage. The smooth enamel of his paint was entirely unmarred, but he held them under the stream of water for ten minutes regardless.

"Why do you carry lye in your subspace?" He finally asked, shutting the tap off. The water dripped twice before it stopped.

Sunstreaker shrugged dismissively. "High grade. Keeps it from fermenting too fast."

"...Pardon?"

Sunstreaker huffed air through his vents. "Making high grade. If it ferments too fast, it tastes like shit."

Perceptor recalled the formula for high grade, and the chemical processes that allowed it to happen. Then he sped up the reaction, saw the molecules exchange charges, contort around each other into tight rings.

"That would form hydrolyzed carbonate aurchloride!" He sputtered.

"Yeah?"

"That's, well," Perceptor started pacing, "well, it's an exceedingly toxic substance. As I recall, in Iacon alone, there were at least ten HCA deaths every vorn. It accumulates along the processor chips, and over time, corrodes the fine connections. It's a fascinating chemical process."

"Sure. And it tastes like shit."

"That too," Perceptor conceded. Something occurred to him. "Is that why you and Sideswipe were stealing my laboratory equipment?"

"He broke the heating plate." Sunstreaker complained. "We can't burn off the crude."

"Have you considered a filtration system?" Perceptor envisioned the petroleum solution. Carbon, oxygen, and sundry organic others all meshed together in a churning mass of constantly reforming hydrocarbons. He applied electricity to it, then a flux of anions and cations, magnetism, he heated it, cooled it, strained it through micromesh and agarose gel. He even added it to water, for his own amusement.

"Hey," Sunstreaker snapped his fingers in front of Perceptor's nose.

"What?" Perceptor shuttered his optics momentarily. Sunstreaker looked down at him, his expression inscrutable. There was perhaps a new stress on the edges of his eyes, a strange tilt to his mouth.

"What were you doing?"

"Thinking. Considering. I believe I could construct a far more efficient method of distilling petroleum into high grade, considering the transient nature of your heating array. Incidentally, I may have also created a new form of combustible fuel."

"What?"

"Well, I can never be certain. I will need to review the literature in detail."

"Not that. Distilling." Sunstreaker leaned his hip against the bench.

"Oh, it's simple—just an electrophoresis."

"Think I'll stick to a hot plate." Then he turned away, and resumed pacing.

Huh.

Perceptor shrugged and returned to his inventory—carefully this time. His spine prickled, and he repressed a shiver.

* * *

"You have dents."

"Excuse me?"

Sunstreaker crossed the room and jabbed him in the back. "Dents. They look bad."

"Oh," Perceptor turned away from his circuit boards and glanced at his back, "it doesn't hurt, but thank you."

Sunstreaker snorted. "It's _ugly_." He said the word like a slur.

"I don't mind it," Perceptor frowned, "It isn't worth getting them fixed until I need full body work. Besides, I'm too busy."

Sunstreaker gave him another one of those unreadable looks.

"Get on the table."

"Excuse me?"

Sunstreaker took a step towards him, and Perceptor dodged around the bench to put a solid object in between himself and Sunstreaker's irrational temper. Sunstreaker sighed, and did his best to look slightly less intimidating.

"I'm going to fix your back," He retrieved a small, thin metal bar with a rubber tip—handy for prying under armor and popping dents out—from his subspace and held it out like a peace offering.

"You really don't need to," Perceptor considered. While he had no desire to let someone so rough and tumble anywhere near his person, he had to admit—if only to himself—that his back was tender when dented. And, aside from some property damage, Sunstreaker hadn't actually done anything to him.

"I'm going to go crazy if I don't have something to do," Sunstreaker confessed, although it sounded more cautionary than anything else, "so let me do this."

"Alright," Perceptor said, at length, "I agree."

"This come off?" Sunstreaker tapped his scope. Perceptor cringed.

"Please don't touch that; it's very precisely calibrated. And no," Perceptor chuckled, "why, that would be like asking you to remove your wheels."

Sunstreaker didn't laugh.

Perceptor coughed static. "Well, yes. Where should I be?"

"Just sit up here," he patted the bench.

Perceptor compiled, and made a note to alter the cleaning drones to account for whatever contaminants he left behind.

"Turn."

"Ah, of course."

The alien feeling of something prying up under his plating bristled across his back. He flinched minutely.

"Stop moving. Relax."

"That's quite easy for you to say, given that you don't have a, ah!, a lever under your plating."

Sunstreaker bent the bar suddenly, and the dent popped out. The noise echoed along Perceptor's spine, and through his helmet. It felt like he was depressurizing during a descent inside Skyfire. He reached up to press on the side of his head.

"There," the strange pressure under his plating ceased, and Sunstreaker stepped back, "done."

"Really?" Perceptor craned his neck to peer over his shoulder, "That was very fast."

"I've got a lot of practice. Heavy assault stuff; tricks of the trade. Ratchet doesn't like fixing damage from slagging stupid fights or vain nonsense." His voice took on a lilting quality, and Perceptor had no doubt that he was quoting verbatim.

"You could always come to First Aid, or even to Wheeljack and me."

"Hah," Sunstreaker grinned, the expression less nasty than Perceptor had come to expect, "I don't want you geeks anywhere near my finish."

"Well, I suppose yellow wouldn't look very good covered in soot."

"Yeah. Red doesn't either." Sunstreaker clapped him on the shoulder, and let his hand linger a second longer than necessary. Then, he pulled away to stare out of the window.

That left Perceptor sitting on the table, trying to discern if he'd been insulted.

Or worse: complemented.

* * *

Two hours later, Perceptor considered that it was probably a neutral statement, at best. Or perhaps Sunstreaker was commiserating on behalf of his brother, although Perceptor had never heard rumor that Sideswipe was particularly concerned with his appearance, at least, not at Sunstreaker's level.

Sunstreaker was, completely objectively, one of the most attractive individuals Perceptor had ever seen. He knew it, too. His vanity was, at least in part, justified.

Perceptor surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder. Sunstreaker was still brooding out of the door window, so he didn't feel quite as intrusive watching him. The sharp artificial light of the hallway streamed through the window. Instead of casting him into harsh shadows, it just illuminated the clean lines of face. He certainly was… symmetrical.

The rumor mill had it that both Sunstreaker and his brother had been deeply involved in the underground gladiatorial rings, before the extensive clean up operations to prepare for Sentinel's ascendency to the Primacy. Then, as Sideswipe often commiserate, he struggled for a few thousand years to break into trading while Sunstreaker lingered at the edges of the art world. Then, Sentinel was assassinated, and the war began.

That Sunstreaker had avoided and injuries severe enough to permanently damaging his good looks was proof enough of his skill as a fighter.

Sunstreaker shifted slightly, watching someone in the hall, and Perceptor looked away.

He was fully aware that he wasn't particularly handsome. He had a plain face and a square frame—perfect for steady precision work in the lab, less so for 'looking good'. Perceptor was not a mech to be concerned with his appearance, and in fact he normally didn't care, but even he wasn't immune to social pressures.

Perceptor shook himself out of his thoughts. It was unlike him to be melancholy.

* * *

"You drink?"

Perceptor looked up, flushed, and patted his protesting abdomen. Four energon sticks were not meant to fuel a mech for eight hours.

"Drink what?"

"High grade," Sunstreaker rolled his eyes, "what else?"

"Oh. No, I don't like to imbibe."

Sunstreaker pulled an opalescent cube from subspace. Perceptor stared at it, transfixed by the light shifting off the surface—certain chemical blends of energon could fluoresce—and by his tank groaning with emptiness.

"I only have this."

"Aren't you hungry as well? Sports cars burn fuel faster, as I'm sure you know, and we have been here for quite some time. Even speculation—assuming you were sixty percent fueled when you entered—places you at below forty percent by now."

Sunstreaker wordlessly produced another cube.

"Ah."

He walked over and sat on Perceptor's desk, pushing a stack of datapads aside.

"I wouldn't have offered if I only had one," he held the cube out to Perceptor, "Sideswipe and I were gonna drink it after we stole your shit."

"Celebratory, I assume," Perceptor took the cube. He considered it for a moment. It was heavier than its size would have suggested, but that was due to the high lead levels in the fuel that American government allotted them.

"You gonna drink it?"

"I'm afraid I'm a bit of a light weight."

His tank growled. Sunstreaker looked at him pointedly.

"Can't you," he said in between sips, "filter it out, or something?"

"Ah, no," Perceptor tried not to balk at Sunstreaker's ignorance, "no, it doesn't work like that."

"Hn. Bottoms up," he held up his cube.

"I suppose so," Perceptor gently tapped it with his own, and took a drink. He coughed, once, and smelled burning.

Sunstreaker clapped him on the back. "This isn't a good batch," he scowled, "Sideswipe added too much zinc."

Perceptor let out a burst of static around the burning in his throat.

"Too strong?" Sunstreaker guessed.

"Just a," Perceptor coughed, "just a touch."

"Hm," Sunstreaker left his hand on Perceptor's back, rubbing it in absent-minded little circles. Perceptor tried not to give it much thought, which became more difficult when Sunstreaker drummed out a rhythm on the back of his shoulder.

He considered the cube in his hand and took another sip. It still burned, perhaps worse than before, but now that he was prepared for it, he took the opportunity to parse out the elements contained within.

"A heavier metal might make it taste… normal." While he certainly hadn't lied—he toasted a fraction of a cube on special occasions—he knew what high-grade was meant to taste like, and this certainly wasn't it.

"S' already got lead in it."

"Oh, no, molecular weight, not density. Something like thorium. Well, if you don't mind the radiation."

"No radiation. Bumblebee buys from us; can't be around humans."

"Perhaps iridium, then. Although that may be too dense."

"Or you could just drink it."

"That I may."

* * *

"The point is," Perceptor considered for a second, then lowered his forehead onto his desk, "the point is a multi-phase quantum disruptor is nothing beyond theoretical. I worked with someone, uh, I forget his name," he giggled, "anyway! It wouldn't work. Physics wouldn't work."

Sunstreaker looked at him. "You are such a light weight."

"I think this the drunkest I've ever been in my life."

"You had an eighth of a cube."

"Ah, so I did," Perceptor turned to face it, abandoned on his desk, "should I finish it?"

Sunstreaker pulled the cube away from him. "I think you've had enough."

"I'm not hungry anymore. High-grade has more energy, you see, but of course, rapid charging causes drunkenness."

"That why you feel drunk after you overload?"

"I," Perceptor took the time to comprehend Sunstreaker's question, "what?"

"Drunk. Loose and," he waved his hand, searching for the word.

"Happy?"

"Sure."

"Ah, no. Overload," Perceptor fought down his embarrassment and clung to clinical formality, "affects the entire body. Being drunk just triggers, uh, triggers a feedback loop to the processor," he traced out a diagram on his desk with the tip of his finger, "it's a physiological reaction. The leading theory was that the body rewards for consumption of excess fuel, to encourage binging in times of prosperity."

"So you feel good because your brain doesn't want you to starve?"

Perceptor shrugged. "That was the leading theory."

"So you think it's bullshit?" Sunstreaker picked up his tone.

Perceptor looked up the reference, and made a disgusted face. "To some degree. I believe it's simply the inability to maintain charge. The processor needs to burn it off some way, and so induces feelings of euphoria to encourage activity. The processor acquires damage if it keeps too high a charge for too long."

"Huh," Sunstreaker gulped down a mouthful of Perceptor's cube, "didn't really think about it."

"I can't help it."

Sunstreaker raised a brow.

"Thinking, I mean," Perceptor continued, "I think about everything. It's wonderful, except when I need my brain to be quiet."

Sunstreaker made a neutral noise and took another sip.

"The euphoria," Perceptor added, and then immediately regretted it, "after overload is a separate process."

"Yeah?" Sunstreaker leaned back against the wall, "s' that why it feels good?"

"It's a matter of," Perceptor coughed, "social bonds."

"Social bonds?"

"Yes."

Sunstreaker was silent for a moment.

"You're embarrassed," he said, rather neutrally, despite the smirk taking up half of his face.

Perceptor refused to respond. He could see his self-consciousness slipping away in the distance. There it went. Bye!

"Whatever," Sunstreaker dropped the topic, and picked up a less embarrassing, if more disgusting, one, "so why do humans interface? Social bonds, or whatever?"

"In part, yes. Humans reproduce sexually. The act of copulation allows them to mingle chromosomes and produce a new human."

Sunstreaker wrinkled his nose, "how?"

Perceptor rifled through his files, and found the least offensive introduction to human reproduction he could: a high school sex ed video. He sent to Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker opened it, and his pale eyes dimmed as he watched it.

Perceptor focused on trying to make his brain work again.

Five minutes later, Sunstreaker rounded on him.

"That was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen," his face was contorted with revulsion, "I think I'm going to purge."

He drew his legs up on the table, and put his head between his knees. "Why did you show me that? Is _that_ what 'fuck' means?"

"You asked!" Perceptor was certain there was nothing more visceral than a brief explanation of how menstruating functioned. Poor Sunstreaker; he was going to be so confused.

He looked up sharply, and sent Perceptor a pointed glare. "Is that why Carly is so fat?"

It occurred to Perceptor that perhaps Sunstreaker was just as drunk as him, if not more so. It would explain why he hadn't been punched yet.

"Carly is pregnant, yes," he said gently, "how did you _think_ the embryo got there?"

Sunstreaker looked at him hopelessly and violently shrugged.

"Does the Daniel actually come out," he gestured vaguely to his pelvis, "like that?"

"Perhaps. Carly might opt for a cesarean." At Sunstreaker's confused expression, he added, "a surgical procedure designed to remove the fetus once it has developed."

"That sounds less nasty."

Perceptor nodded. "I have been made aware that vaginal birth has significant dangers."

Chip had confided in him that his spine was damaged was due to an accident during his birth, and he had been wheelchair bound since childhood. Although, and it was uncouth to say it, he thought both processes—birth and surgery—were rather… unpleasant.

"I'll tell Bumblebee when he picks up his cubes. He can tell Carly to have a ces—whatever it was you said."

"That's very considerate of you," Perceptor reached over to pat Sunstreaker on the shoulder.

Sunstreaker caught his hand before Perceptor could touch him, but instead of hissing vitriol or snapping his hand off at the wrist, or something more _Sunstreaker_ , he shifted, and held Perceptor's hand firmly, considering. He smoothed his broad thumbs over Perceptor's palms. Perceptor shivered. Then he pulled Perceptor's hand forwards—and Perceptor up out of his seat with it—and placed it on his cheek. He held it there, long enough that Perceptor had to put a knee on the desk to ease the tension in his shoulder. It put them uncomfortably close.

Sunstreaker's other hand found its way behind Perceptor's helm, nestled awkwardly above his collar assembly.

"Our way," he whispered, close enough that Perceptor could hear the crackle of static underlying his words, "is better."

He pulled Perceptor's hand down across his jaw, so his thumb was touching his lip, pressed against the soft metal. Sunstreaker opened his mouth—

Perceptor pulled away. His pump, which must have forgotten to keep beating, was working double time, thrumming in his ears. He backed away, enough that the backs of his thighs hit the bench behind him. His hand tingled.

Sunstreaker was staring at him, eyes bright, as close to _shock_ as he ever got.

"We shouldn't," Perceptor gasped, "we're drun—"

The door slid open with a hiss.

"Sunny!" Sideswipe shouted and tore into the room. Sunstreaker pushed himself down from the desk and caught Sideswipe's jovial hug. He didn't break eye contact until Wheeljack tugged Perceptor towards the door.

"Alright, Sideswipe," Ratchet elbowed his way into the room, "parole's up! Come on, back to the med bay. The floor isn't going to scrub itself!"

"Bro, he's got me on a janitorial detail," Sideswipe grabbed Sunstreaker's elbows, "it's _torture_."

"Chop, chop," Ratchet clapped his hands, "get back to it. Perceptor, how are you?"

Perceptor blinked and looked up at him, "Ah, Ratchet. I'm fine."

Ratchet squinted. "If you're sure."

Perceptor surreptitiously steadied himself against Wheeljack. "I'm sure."

Ratchet returned to yelling at Sideswipe. Wheeljack touched his shoulder. "Have you been drinking?" His face was contorted with concern.

"It's nothing. Really," he patted Wheeljack's chest, "it was just a little bit."

Wheeljack frowned, his eyes narrowing.

"Look," Perceptor held his arms out, "no scratches, no dents, all my limbs. Sunstreaker was harmless."

Wheeljack glanced past him to where Sunstreaker has Sideswipe in a headlock and was digging his knuckles into his brother's helm.

"Harmless, you say?" The concern was back. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Ratchet ushered Sunstreaker out of the room, followed closely by a jabbering Sideswipe. Sunstreaker turned his head around for a second, and that _look_ was back in his eyes. Then he turned away.

Perceptor stared until Wheeljack gently pushed him out of the room. He stood by the door, gently tapping his chest and trying to parse out what he was feeling. It was harder than it should have been, and he was being melancholy again. It must have been the high grade.

He frowned, blinked once, cleared his throat with a puff of static, and turned off the lights.

* * *

In the long vaunted tradition of 'I can never come up with titles so I put my phone on shuffle and choose a lyric from the first song', today's title comes from X Gon Give it to Ya, by DMX.

Desmond Tutu was the Nobel Peace prize recipient in 1984. He was an opponent of apartheid in South Africa.

Photonic is a Star Trek: Voyager reference. I don't doubt Wheeljack would use a missile (even a fictional one) to distribute food.

'Ixnay on the ighhay radegay' is pig latin for 'Nix on the high grade', if it wasn't obvious.

1937 is military time for 7:37

Factor V (5) is one of the coagulation factors in the body. It is part of the chemical (rather than physical, like platelets) system to stop bleeding. Sometimes factor V mutates into factor V Leiden, which doesn't respond to the body telling it to stop coagulating, so there's inappropriate clotting.

While hydrofluoric acid is very powerful, it can't actually eat through metal. Lye (or sodium hydroxide) is a strong base. As a note, the 'strength' of an acid or base doesn't refer to how destructive it is, but to how reactive it is, and how easily it accepts or donates a positive charge. That being said, lye is really caustic. General lab safety has it that you _don't_ pour a base on an acid (or vice versa) but these are giant robots.

'hydrolyzed carbonate aurchloride' is an absolute bs term I came up with off the top of my head.

Electrophoresis is a method of separating proteins by weight or charge.

Thorium has an atomic weight of 232 and change and is radioactive. Iridium has an atomic weight of 192 and a bit. I got an A in organic chemistry and the only thing I've ever used it for is fanfiction.

Thanks for reading!


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